


Cultivating Eros

by madstoryteller999



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ice Skating, M/M, Possessiveness, Rivals, Yuri's about to actually grow, Yuuri comes into his own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madstoryteller999/pseuds/madstoryteller999
Summary: A coy curl of the lip, hip cocked to the side, head tilted. That's how it all starts.- This is a Yuri/Yuuri fanfiction because, nonconformist that I am, I thought I ought to break the endless stream of practically canon Yuuri/Victor fanfics





	1. Prelude

Usually I'm against providing visuals, but this is the one exception I will make :) Yuri eventually matures in this story and the image on the left is how I imagine him looking. (Neither of these images are mine! They are from the internet)

                             

* * *

 

A coy curl of the lip, hip cocked to the side, head tilted. That's how it all starts. The first time Yuri Plitsetsky glimpses it, he knows it's weak. The Japanese pig is imagining a pork cutlet bowl, for god's sake, because he's too fucking virginal.

Yuri himself barely makes it through his own performance. It's technically flawless, of course, because Yuri expects nothing less of himself. But he knows that the pretense of emoting his theme had been even shakier than Yuuri's pathetic attempt at sex appeal. After the failed performance, Yuri laughs darkly about it. _Agape._ Pure, untainted love. It becomes blatantly apparent to him that despite the gratitude he holds for his grandfather, the emotion he holds in his chest for the old man being, indeed, the closest thing to love he has ever felt in his life for anybody--it's not enough to erase the damage.

Nights of deplorable hedonism he had sought as an escape since an age far, far too young had corrupted his performance. And even if that hadn't ruined it, the spasming muscle and joint pain he's been fighting desperately for months certainly had. Yuri had been assigned _agape_ , but if his audience had looked just a little more closely (as Victor had no doubt done), they would have seen the contorted rage on his face.

Yuri cannot but help but laugh out loud now as he sits on his flight back to Russia. Because, in the end, the fact remains that Katsuki Yuuri ending up with the song about fucking instead of him is also laughable. Katsuki, a Japanese virgin who has probably never been fucked by another person and is undoubtedly too prudish to even do the job with his own hand. Yuri, on the other hand, (despite what his thin body and delicate features lead many to expect him to be) knows more than he should about the illicit nirvana of dominating a compliant body beneath him, thrusting into writhing heat with bruising force, and wresting his pleasure from another.

He suspects there's a dark, ruthless hunger in him that will probably belie any true performance of _agape_ in the future. Though, he also imagines he will probably get better at faking it. True authenticity among performers, Yuri acknowledges darkly, Victor Nikiforov decidedly included, is somewhat of a rarity.

But almost as soon as he thinks those words, the image of impassioned dark eyes behind dark frames flashes through his mind. 

And just for a moment--despite the otherwise volatile fury threatening to explode in him at the mere mention of the other's name--he remembers the almost-successful curl of the lip, cocked hip, and tilted head. Reality, however, quickly returns and he closes his eyes to catch some sleep before he gets back for training in Russia.

************************************

Yakov ends up replacing Victor's absence with his ex-wife, prima ballerina Lilia Baranovskaya. She's a hard task master, unsympathetic and ruthless, and she is adamant that Yuri embody the effeminate 'Russian fairy' Victor had originally demanded of him. So each day, he kicks his leg up higher, leans his head back farther, and bends his back more. Baranovskaya watches first in silence, then yells, and then tells him to do it again from the beginning. Eventually, after repeating this process more times than he cares to count, he finishes practice and leaves.

Sometimes, Baranovskaya's gaze lingers when he goes, containing some strange, elusive emotion he can't quite recognize. It's only later it occurs to him to wonder if she can see what he's fighting to hide: the ache in his muscles and joints he stubbornly rejects, the fact that his body _is fucking sabotaging him._

They say young ice skaters go one of two ways--either they mature gracefully or their bodies change too much and what once made them great becomes lost.

Yuri does not know if it's will power or luck, but sooner or later, both will run out. There's only so much longer he can stave off his body's growth.

************************************

Despite himself, Yuri finds his eyes glued to the TV screen as he eats his food in the cafeteria after a hard day of training. After a short introduction from the announcer, Katsuki Yuuri appears on the screen, face deathly pale against the black of his hair and his costume. Yuri has not seen him for nearly a month, but there's something about him now that looks sharper, harder _._ His eyes are locked intensely on something off the screen, and while Yuri can guess, he does not definitively know on who.

But it's not necessarily the object of his gaze but its content that gives Yuri pause.

Because it’s…closer. Not _quite_ the unadulterated desire to fuck that one would be expected from a piece about _Eros_ , but certainly a desperate wanting for _something_. Katsuki Yuuri's eyes are heated in the kind of way that makes Yuri want to yank forcefully on his dark hair and bite harshly at the junction of his shoulder and his neck just to see what kind of rough, broken noise will escape the other's mouth. Because Yuri can tell that the man who shares his name still doesn't quite know what it means to burn with lust yet, but now that he knows he can make a face like _that_ , he suspects it will be poentially devastating when Katsuki finds out.

Like the other skaters in the room, Yuri watches the performance with rapt attention. And when Katsuki Yuuri changes his performance slightly from before to lick his lips before tousling his hair and then proceeds to land all his quads, the dangerous thought persists.

************************************

Yuri fucks up a jump in his short program in the Rostelecom Cup. He manages to walk away with a silver and a pass to the Grand Prix finals, but he’s still pissed off about it and he blames it on the growing pains.

Skating against Katsuki again is…different from what he expects. Mainly in that he had not expected the Japanese skater to fuck up as much as he had. _Really_ , that the dark haired man had even managed to make it into the Grand Prix finals as well was due to ridiculous luck.

As Yuri packs up his skates in the locker room, he reflects to himself that he should be feeling something very much like vicious pleasure now. He had just witnessed Japanese pig’s literal fall from grace, after all.

And yet, strangely…he isn’t pleased at all.  

If anything, Yuri feels _cheated_. Because he knows he hasn't beaten the other due to advanced skill. Katsuki, he has learned in the past few weeks, is a...tempestuous skater, so much so that it's practically absurd. On his best days (Yuri acknowledges grudgingly) the Japanese man can skate like a living flame—with a raw, unnerving  _intensity_. But, like a flame, he also threatens to both fade and flare with his mood.

The sudden sounds of a door swinging open and a gasp interrupt his thoughts, and he looks up with a glare at his intruder. Of course, chance would have it that it would be this person to enter this locker room at this particular moment.

Katsuki Yuuri gives him a strained smile, his face pale as he walks to his own locker. “Congrats on your free skate, Yurio. You have improved very much in such a short time.” The other man looks at him with a tired sort of expectancy, clearly waiting for some form of response. Yuri elects to lean back against the lockers and just watch him silently.

Apparently unable to deal with the silence, the Japanese man rubs the back of his head uncomfortably. “Ah—ha,” he laughs apologetically, “watching me today must have been…unpleasant. I can’t imagine what Victor will say when he comes back—” a brief glimpse of desolation on his face before he’s able to mask it with a light-hearted demeanor—“But then, if he decides to return to Russia again, you will be able to skate with him again, right? I suppose that would be nice…”

Yuri almost does the right thing, then—almost decides just to leave. To remove himself from the situation like any sane person would do.

But apparently, when it comes down to it, Yuri doesn’t give two fucks about sane decision-making.

(It really shouldn't. But everything about this sullen, defeated man pisses Yuri the _fuck_ off.)

“Oh, that really _is_ aptly put,” he drawls, looking up at the taller man, “Fitting words from the idiot who is pathetic enough to believe his every successful performance can only fall out of Victor Nikiforov’s ass.”

And he knows it is true. Victor has become the focus of Katsuki's flame-like intensity—an idiot and a half could have put that together having seen the two heads so close (Katsuki’s flushed cheeks, his trembling hands) just before the short program. And is Yuri even surprised? No doubt, the Japanese pig is so socially awkward that normally people don’t _bother_ to look twice in his direction. That Victor, emotionally plastic as he is, perhaps feeling the first stirrings of genuine curiosity regarding another human being in his life, has actually given attention to Katsuki and that it has gone to Katsuki’s head…is unsurprising.

And now, Katsuki has the gall to look shocked by these words.

Yuri scoffs. “Don't even bother disagreeing. I’m not blind, moron. You skate for him like you owe him every performance. And when he wasn’t here for the performance today, you managed to fuck up. You think he’s given you enough that you can act like everything you've ever done is beholden to _him_?”

Slowly, the skater’s tired face becomes tight. 

“Skating is my life,” Katsuki returns with a forced calm, his jaw clenched. "I don't know what's gotten into you suddenly, Yurio, but please don't talk about Victor like this. You have absolutely no idea what he has given me. He—you understand, you wanted him too.”

“I did,” Yuri allows without a flinch, letting some hair fall in front of his eyes, “To choreograph my piece or help me with a quad or two. But there’s no way that emotionally inept man could have been a good coach. In fact, I doubt he even is one for you.” 

Yuri observes the other man’s reaction with almost indecent focus, unwittingly committing the image before him to memory. Because...Katsuki’s tightly controlled demeanor is quickly collapsing—pale cheeks, darkening eyes, and panting breath. And, yes, it’s because Katsuki’s pissed off, but he’s _passionately,_ intensely pissed off, and fuck, if it isn’t peculiarly… _something_.

“Shut up,” Katsuki bites out, eyes burning. “Victor--!”

And Yuri smirks angrily because it’s _Victor_ , no honorific.

“I think I can guess, _Yuuri_ ,” Yuri retorts, walking closer until he’s only a foot away from the other man. “Can I call you that? There’s no confusion when it’s just the two of us, right? You can call me that too, you know. _Yuri_.”

Yuri watches him carefully, notices the way the Japanese man’s breath seems to pause when he says his—their—name. Quickly gathering himself, the skater glares somewhere behind his head.

Yuri grits his teeth.

“Do you remember last year,” he asks him, tone callous, “after the Grand Prix final. When I found you sniveling in that bathroom stall?”

And, like that, Katsuki’s eyes snap back to his, blazing. Yuri imagines that this is by far the angriest he—he might even wager anyone—has ever seen the mild-mannered dark haired man. “You know, you’ve always been a—a _brat_ , Yuri, but I never imagined you were so cruel.”

Despite the circumstances, despite the fact that Katsuki is really totally off-base and actually Yuri is kind of acting like a fucking Samaritan right now even though it might not seem it…Yuri is somewhat…impressed. He wonders where this _fascinating_ iron backbone has been every other time he has pushed the Japanese man around.

“I’m rude,” Yuri acknowledges, because it’s true. “But that’s not what we’re talking about right now. We’re talking about that the fact that after you fell at the Grand Prix finals, quite humiliatingly too, it took you weeks to get back in the rink. But you did it. And you did it well before Victor fucking Nikiforov ever decided to take a vacation in Japan.”

“Do you _think_ ,” he continues slowly, “that you’re the only person who’s had a hard time skating again after a humiliating fall? Do you think you’re special enough or different enough from other people that you alone need only one man in your entire life to ever achieve anything? I’m sure Victor enjoys playing coach. But I bet if he sees you crying like you did last year, he’ll pat you on your head or say something stupid and won’t have the good sense to yell at you to stop being a fucking idiot.”

“I see you're determined to believe whatever you want,” Katsuki snaps. But the denial is too quick, too vague.

Abandoning all pretense of purported nonchalance now, Yuri leans in even closer and returns Katsuki’s intense gaze with low, growling words.  “Coaches come and go, and you’re a moron if you think the only reason I or anyone thinks you’re a threat is because you have _him_. So don’t let me ever stand on a podium again with someone who thinks himself handicapped like that because it makes me want to _vomit_.”

For a moment, the two gaze at each other in jarring silence.                                    

Then Katsuki shoves him off, not violently but with some force, and Yuri allows himself to be pushed away, eyes still locked on the other man.

“I wish you a safe flight. I must take my leave.” Katsuki manages curtly, eyes shadowed and unreadable. He gathers his things quickly before heading to the door. He slows down a little when he passes Yuri, however, and Yuri takes it as an opportunity.

“Hey Katsuki!” he snaps, snapping out a hand to stop the man in his tracks. He glares at him for a moment, and then demands, “Do you want to fuck Victor?”

The Japanese man actually seems to choke on air. He coughs loudly, clutching his chest, turns his head and reveals a red face and wide, accusing eyes. “ _What?!_ Of course n—”

And, with that, Yuri finally _is_. Viciously pleased, that is.

Quick as a blur and with a strength he knows most do not expect of him, he grabs the other man’s collar again and pushes him up against the opposite locker, following him there.

“Well then,” he murmurs—and Yuri notes that Katsuki’s body is stiff, _burning_ , eyes  unfathomably dark—“...and this is purely for educational purposes—”

Yuri presses in tightly, so that there’s not one iota of space between the two of them from their pelvises to their legs, and— _yes_ —

“ _That_ is what _Eros_ looks like.”

Yuri grabs his bag and leaves.

* * *

 

 

Should I continue this???

 

Reviews/Comments/Kudos will tell :)


	2. Requiem

The gold ring on Katsuki’s hand. It’s the first thing that Yuri notices.

It’s simple, barely visible from where Yuri is sitting in the stands. But it glints in the light and catches his eyes like…like a _car wreck_ he can’t help but slow down to observe. Yuri scowls.

As the older skater begins to take his position on the ice, Yuri notices the subtle thrum of tension running throughout his body. It’s hidden, but for someone who has seen this particular piece every time it has been performed, has seen this skater every time he has performed it, it is obvious—from the clench of his jaw to the almost aggressive positioning of his hip.

Yuri’s blonde hair falls in front of his face as he leans closer to observe him, and he angrily pushes it back.

The music starts and—as he has predicted, from the argumentative, almost rebellious attitude the other adopted at the end of their last confrontation—Katsuki still looks at Victor.

…But then it becomes quite clear that this performance will be different from the previous. Because instead of the customary, teasing smirk that he usually sends his idol, Katsuki _bares his teeth_ at him. And at the tail end of the teeth baring, Yuri could almost swear that for a second…

Katsuki’s glance lands on him.

************************************

His hand grazes the ice.

It’s not the most terrible of offenses. But…it may very well cost him his chance at the gold.

And Katsuki knows it too. Yuri _sees_ it. Watches him fall to his knees at the end of the performance. Sees the agony on his face that the entire world is able to get a glimpse of before the Japanese man hides it, and Yuri is—once again, should be _happy_ , seeing his competitor like this—but is…unsettled. Angry that the world has had the opportunity to be a voyeur to this.

Even when it’s his turn, Yuri isn’t able to forget the dark, dark eyes, the trembling, furious mouth…the pale, trembling fingers, digging into the ice as though waiting for it to crumble beneath him.

And as Yuri skates, he finds himself…distantly surprised. He had, at this point, grown accustomed to the hunger—the very living, unreasonable thing in him that hungered to conquer that smirk, the bared teeth, and the arrogantly tilted head. But he realizes now, in this moment when he really should be thinking about the fucking difficult quads coming up, or the growing pains that are still threatening to overcome him, or the fact that his grandfather can’t be here...he realizes that there is also something else.

 _Agape,_ strangely, begins to feel like a requiem, and simultaneously, the conception of something ineffable.

************************************

Yuri scores a 118.56. He beats Victor’s world record.

Yuri is…he is…

He can’t find the words except… _Fuck._

And, despite himself, his eyes search the stands.

************************************

Later, after all the short programs are done, Yuri gathers his things from the locker room and exits the rink. Bristling at the cold even though he should be used to it, he makes his way to the limousine Yakov has forced him to use for the duration of the program.

The jerk had even given the driver—a fucking _personalized_ driver, as though Yuri needed a babysitter—access to a GPS tracker in his phone…so that Yuri could not go anywhere without the driver and thus Yakov knowing. Even the mere thought of it pisses him off. But nevertheless, Yuri makes his way to the limousine because it’s only for a short time more.

As he walks across the dark pavement, however, Yuri sees a lone, dark head surrounded by flashing cameras and microphones.

“Katsuki Yuuri! Any comments on your performance today?”

“You attempted a quadruple flip and did not quite manage—”

“Do you think that your previous performance at the Grand Prix finals affected your performance—”

“Has your confidence been shaken, Mr. Katsuki?”

“ _Enough_ ,” Yuri snaps. He pauses for a moment to take in his surroundings, surprised to find himself right next to the other skater amidst the noisy reporters and bright flashes. He didn’t remember moving.

“Yuri Plisetsky! Your performance today was _phenomenal_! Any comments to give your beloved fans—” one reporter begins.

Yuri sends her a burning, vicious glare and the reporter’s mouth moves soundlessly for a few more seconds before she shuts it abruptly.

“Where’s Nikiforov?” Yuri asks the taller man in a low tone.

Katsuki doesn’t look at him as he answers. “He said he has some things to take care of. He will join me…later.”

Yuri looks hard at Katsuki’s face and makes a decision. He grabs the other man’s hand, ignores his shocked protests, and drags him to the dark limousine parked near the corner of the building.

Opening the door, he shoves Katsuki in—succeeding mainly, he acknowledges, because the Japanese man is not expecting it.

“The hotel,” Yuri informs the older dark haired driver. The man nods, closes the partition to give his passengers privacy, and then takes off.

“Yuri,” Katsuki demands as he pulls at the locked door, eyes burning dangerously bright, “ _what_ are you doing?”

Yuri meets the gaze head on. “It didn’t look like you had any other plans.”

Katsuki’s lips tighten, his brow furrowing darkly. Ultimately, after a long tense moment, however, he appears he simply turns his head to the window, to the view of the dark, cool night, and leans his head against the glass.

And then they sit like that. For a good ten minutes, in silence. Yuri tilts his head back against the leather and lets out a breath. He closes his eyes, and soon, it feels like he has fallen asleep. Except he hasn’t. Not quite. And he manages to hear the quiet, almost non-existent words that are spoken into the silence.

“That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

Yuri sits up immediately, eyes shooting to gaze at the other’s man’s silhouette framed by street lights.

“Victor…couldn’t even look at me after, not _properly_ ” Katsuki continues softly. His eyes are still fixed on something outside the window, “But…he looked at you. When you performed. And…all I could see was his back. You were right. You were the one he should have chosen.”

Yuri looks at the man who shares his name— _looks_ at this rival skater from another country, a man who has surpassed too many expectations to be credible. 

And then he looks away.

“Two weeks ago, I managed my first flawless performance,” Yuri informs him coolly, “Managed it consecutively two more times.”

And Katsuki recoils, body physically moving away to turn to the other side so that, now, Yuri can see none of him. “Is this where I…congratulate you?” The words come out unfailingly polite, unfailingly distant.

He had not finished. Yuri sends him a sneer, even though the other can’t see it. “Three days ago, I landed flat on my face after the Quadruple Salchow, Triple Toe Loop Combination. Four times in a row.”

Yuri laughs, a dark, ugly laugh and pulls up his sleeve to show the other his arm. “I was so fucking pissed, I punched out a window. Somehow, my hand was fine, but one of the jagged pieces made a mess of my arm when it went through.”

Katsuki's gaze flies down to examine his arm.  Looking down at it too, he grimaces at the thick gauze and cloying scent of ointment. In retrospect…perhaps that’s why Yakov has a GPS on him.

Dark eyes rapidly move over him. Yuri can’t tell read much more than that from the other’s expression. Privately, he wonders how this man can be so strangely transparent at certain times, and then at others, so incredibly cryptic.

“I cry,” Katsuki returns after a short pause. His face is uncomfortable, now, as though he feels obligated to share this information after Yuri’s anecdote. Then, he laughs a bit humorlessly. “But you already knew that. You saw me. It’s, uh, well…it’s suffocating. When it happens. It’s like I’ll never be able to escape the anxiety or forget my failures. And it always comes back, that feeling, whenever I need it not to the most.”

Yuri narrows his eyes before nodding sharply. Because, maybe, in the past he has laughed about Katsuki’s tears and made fun of him for it, but...this is not the time. 

“I win.” Yuri summarizes curtly, “Definitely more destructive.”

There’s a faint smile on Katsuki’s face. “I think everyone knows that already.”

Both of them feel the limousine slow to a stop. A second later, the partition opens and the driver announces, “We have arrived, sir.”

“Yes,” Yuri says a bit awkwardly, because he really doesn’t know what the etiquette is here. Fuck. “Thank…you.” The older man nods his head sagely and then steps out to open the door on Yuri’s side.

Before he steps out, however, Yuri manages to catch the expression on Katsuki’s face. The idiot’s face shows exactly what’s he’s thinking. Without pause, Yuri leans in uncomfortably close until dark eyes meet his directly.

“Too late,” Yuri snaps, “You missed your chance when you didn’t jump out the window.”

And, unexpectedly, the older skater laughs quietly at that, a small, reserved smile spreading across his lips. His face becomes serious a second later and he returns Yuri’s gaze with frightening intensity, as though searching for something.

After a short moment, Katsuki Yuuri follows him out of the limousine.

************************************

Yuri tries to look nonchalant as they pass through the grandiose lobby of the Ritz Carlton. The hotel’s clientele is the type that knows exactly who they are—knows enough to stop dead in their tracks and conversations to gape at the strange pair.

When they reach the elevator, he jabs impatiently at the button, all too eager for the doors to close. Looking up, he finds Katsuki looking at him with his head cocked to the side.

“What?” Yuri demands.

“Nothing.” Katsuki returns.

Yuri leans back against the side of the elevator, watching the numbers change on the screen. _Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…_ The doors open with a short ping.

Swinging his head back quickly to make sure the other man is following him, Yuri walks down the hall to the very end. He approaches the last door, inserts a card, and shoves the door open with his foot to reveal a suite entirely too large and extravagant for one individual.

“Wow,” he feels Katsuki breathe behind him. Yuri feels his eyes slide to half-mast at the sensation.

“We’ll order room service,” he declares a little too roughly, moving to pick up the hotel menu, “What do you want?”

“Ah....please do not mind me. I am not very hungry.”

“Right,” Yuri sneers, “and that ring _is_ actually a proposal of marriage to Nikiforov. Don’t fucking lie to me. Want fries?”

Katsuki sends Yuri a complicated look, before saying slowly, “Actually, do they have…um, mac and cheese.”

“They do,” Yuri smirks, looking down at the menu, “in the kid’s section.” He picks up the phone and makes the order: mac and cheese, a hamburger for himself, and two vanilla milkshakes because he fucking feels like it.

When he hangs up, he feels Katsuki’s heavy gaze on him. Yuri returns the gaze impatiently. “Well?”

He watches Katsuki’s lips tighten, watches the other man debate over something in his mind, before suddenly, inexplicably, the other man is leaning in close—too close—to him. And, just like that, everything begins to feel like a very bizarre repeat of what had happened not too long ago.

“Yuri,” Katsuki says—and Yuri’s eyes flash, because there’s something about the way the other man says his name. His voice is strained now. “Can…would you mind…I can't stop--”

“Spit it out, Katsuki,” Yuri growls. His lips almost brush the dark haired man’s ear.

He feels the other man inhale against him, a deep, shuddering breath.

Then: “Can I…cry now?”

And there it is. The furious, trembling mouth, the pale, trembling fingers, and the dark, dark eyes that Yuri can’t look away from.

Yuri _knows_ , if he says no, that Katsuki will listen. That the other man will undoubtedly give him a polite, distant smile, all hints of rawness hidden, and then _leave_. And something about that is…unacceptable.

“Until the food comes,” Yuri allows, not meeting the other’s eyes, “and then I put a stop to the idiocy.”

So Katsuki does. And it’s wet and it’s messy and it’s awkward and uncomfortable because the taller man is bending over so that his forehead rests on Yuri’s shoulder.

But Yuri is _viciously_ glad, nevertheless. Because the world does not get to see this and it’s his alone.

************************************

Eventually, the food arrives.

“Stop your sniveling, Katsuki. We all know that if you don’t get gold this year, you’re going to get it next year.”

And despite the harshness of his words, his words are soft, and Katsuki…stops.  

 

* * *

Guys. You are _seriously_ amazing. You have no idea how motivating your comments have been and they're basically the only reason why I wrote this during finals week. Otherwise, let's face it, I would just be a stupid person instead of also a very easily persuaded one ;)

So, basically, same deal:

Want more of this? Comment / Kudos pls <3

 


	3. Allegro Apassionato in B Minor

“ _You’re coming back?!”_

There’s only one person who makes Yakov shout that way.

He turns back to see Victor standing a few feet behind them with a strange smile dancing across his lips. “Yes. For now, I’ll time my return to the Russian Nationals.”

Yakov darts a glance at Yuri, and he knows that his coach is waiting for some sort of… _reaction_. It’s not unprecedented. For a long time, he _had_ fixated on Victor—though notably without the reverent hero worship that has long colored Katsuki’s perception of the older skater. Yuri had looked up to Victor, yes, had aspired to be like him in some ways, yes, but _always_ with the explicit purpose of ultimately surpassing his fellow countryman. Yuri does not want to _share_ being at the top with Victor; he wants to kick him off.

But suddenly--and unexpectedly--Yuri realizes that he is no longer very…interested in competing directly against Victor Nikiforov. Certainly after Katsuki's world record performance. At least, no more than he is at surpassing any other talented skater. 

 _Speaking of which_ …a thought occurs to Yuri that makes his face thunderous.

“Does that mean that—that the pork cutlet bowl is _retiring_?”

The strange smile remains on Victor’s face. Yuri can see that there’s a certain uncomfortable sharpness to it.

(It's a manufactured expression, but even Yuri has to admit there seems to be...authenticity in Victor's treatment of and care for Yuuri).

“That’s his decision. He said he’d decide after the Grand Prix Finals are over.”

Yuri knows that there must be a terrible expression on his face right now. When Victor then proceeds to inflict an uncomfortable hug and a sentimental speech on him due to a faulty perception of nerves and a misplaced sense of mentorship, he also knows he should really set the older man straight.

But Yuri happens to be…in a strange daze.                    

And it doesn’t break. At least, not until he finds himself on the ice. It’s only then that, as though spurred on by the flip of the switch, Yuri returns to himself.

_Yakov, Lilia, grandpa, Yuko and the rest…and Katsuki Yuuri. Watch this closely._

And then he is off.

************************************

The pacing of “Allegro Apassionato in B Minor” is hellish. _Furious_ , Lilia has described during practice, often before shouting at him to go faster _._

Yuri feels that that works for him in this moment, though, because… _he is too_.

 _It isn’t enough_.

Yuri had told the other skater, once…to retire. Funny, he had never imagined coming to abhor those very words.

“What, you’re going to retire once you win gold? You don’t care anymore now that you have a score higher than _Victor’s_?” Yuri wants to demand of the other, right now, performance be damned.

And isn’t that just fucking bullshit.

************************************

A successful quadruple Salchow, triple axel with raised arm on entry, and triple flip.  

************************************

 _Don’t disappoint me_.

The thought comes to Yuri as he spins, unbidden. It’s a sense of entitlement, as though Katsuki owes _him_ something.

Yuri knows it’s irrational. Because—and hadn’t Yuri himself _said this?—_ Katsuki is the one who gets to decide when he gets on and off the ice and _should_ be the only person who can.

(But…for fuck’s sake, Katsuki had cried on _his_ shoulder and, maybe, in some strange, inexplicable way Yuri himself has also managed to imbibe temporarily the fury and anguish and _hunger_ and need to prove himself—so uncomfortably very much like his own, if more exposed—that belongs to the other man. And Yuri knows, no matter how the finals end, that Katsuki _cannot possibly be_ _done yet_.)

************************************

He falls during the quadruple toe loop. Then, a successful quadruple Salchow, triple toe loop.

A successful quadruple toe loop, _because he can_ , and then a double toe loop immediately after.

_If you retire now, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life._

A successful triple axel, single loop, and triple Salchow in succession.

When Yuri finishes, his gaze immediately flies up. Dark eyes meet his and Yuri knows that he has never seen them quite like this—still so dark, pitch black dark, but _blazing_. The older man is panting, he can see, almost as though he himself has been skating with Yuri this entire time.

In those eyes, Yuri sees an answer.

His score is posted seconds later.

************************************

Perhaps, it’s one thing, or two things, or multiple things, that compel him to slip today.

Yuri has always been an intensely reserved and private individual. Except for his anger, of course, but everything else—tightly controlled and moderated.

But today…today, he nevertheless lets his knees buckle. Because…

Because _he has fucking won it._

He has won gold at the Grand Prix Finals, even though the odds were against him, even through the muscle pain and the joint pain and the changes in his body that are about to come and the sizeable chance that he might never be able to try again after nature has had its way.  

It helps, perhaps, knowing that Katsuki Yuuri is not retiring today—and Yuri _does_ know that the man isn’t, because a lot of people can use their faces to lie and hide the truth, but Katsuki with his dark eyes and raging authenticity, the man who looked at him like _that_ after his performance, cannot. It helps because, even if Yuri himself might end up having to, there’s a strange sort of—comfort?—in knowing that the man who shares his name— _who almost beat him today, who only lost by a fraction of a point_ —will be on the ice again. 

When the thought passes through his mind, Yuri grimaces and refuses to look at Katsuki as they stand together on the podium because of it.

But…it does not make the sentiment any less…true.

************************************

“Yuuri! Ahaha, that is, _Katsuki_ Yuuri! Actually, ah, both though! _Both_ ‘Yuri’s!” the skater from Thailand hollers with a drunken laugh. “You two…you two were a- _amazing_ today!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Katsuki bend his head respectfully with a shy grin at the compliment. Yuri merely grits his teeth and tugs at the uncomfortable tie around his neck.

Now that he’s had time to process what has happened…well, suffice it to say, he _really_ regrets collapsing on his knees in front of the entire rink and, via television, the world. Especially if it makes people like the Thailand skater think they can talk to him like they’re regular buddies at the local salon.

Finishing off his flute of champagne, he watches the tan skater engage Katsuki in a conversation before allowing his eyes to drift further around the circle the other skaters have formed. The Grand Prix Finals banquet has always been hosted in name for the competing skaters, but in practice, he knows, it has never really been an event for them—hence, the isolated circle. Around the skaters, however, the ballroom is buzzing with frantic movement and conversation. The banquet’s true identity? A luxurious and extravagant networking event for the world’s top coaches, publicists, and bigshots in the International Skating Union.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears his and Katsuki’s name from Giacometti’s mouth. Unerringly, he turns his head to their direction on reflex.

“I have heard some disturbing news,” the blonde skater declares loudly, gaining everyone’s attention. His gaze is pointed at Katsuki. “Someone told me that you are planning to retire.”

The entire circle of skaters quickly becomes dead silent upon hearing these words. 

Katsuki’s eyes flash for a moment before he opens his mouth to respond, no doubt carefully and with great thought and consideration—

“He isn’t.”

Belatedly, Yuri realizes the words come from his own mouth.

Which, he recognizes abruptly, makes it sound as though Katsuki himself has informed him of this decision personally. Which, technically, he has not—verbally, at least. But…who gives a shit. It’s not like it’s not true.

Katsuki’s dark gaze shoots to his with lightning quickness and holds it for an infinitely long moment. Then, he returns his attention to the Swiss man. “I am not. Not until after the next Grand Prix, at least. Victor’s coming back to compete though.”

Giacometti’s strained expression breaks out into a relieved smile. “Ah. Must have been misinformation then.”

“That’s good,” Otabek adds stiffly, “I am looking forward to defeating you both next season.” The other skaters laugh at this comment and offer their own ribbing remarks before returning to their previous conversations.

Katsuki tilts his head and gives them all a short smile. Then, however, he begins to walk away from his position in the circle. It takes a moment for Yuri to recognize that the other man is walking towards _him._

He stops a foot in front of him. “Could I speak to you for a moment outside?”

Yuri reaches out to replace his champagne flute from a server’s tray. “I have a champagne to finish.”

He watches with slightly stunned eyes as a pale hand latches firmly onto his wrist, pressing solidly into skin and bone and preventing him from grabbing the drink. “I think you can afford the time. Also, you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, Yuri.”

Yuri looks up to meet the taller man’s gaze through narrowing eyes. “I was born in Russia. I’ve been drinking alcohol since I could walk.”

Katsuki returns his gaze unflinchingly. “And, here, it is illegal for you to do so.”

Without warning, the dark haired man begins to pull Yuri like a piece of luggage—light tugging with no glance backwards to see if the object behind is following—across the ballroom, out the entrance and into the hallway, then down the hallway into a dim alcove.

Yuri is slightly…taken aback by the other man’s actions, but quickly adapts to the situation with a glare. “What’s the deal, Katsuki?”

“First,” he informs him, voice quiet, “I wanted to tell you, personally: congratulations.”

“Is that all?” Yuri demands after a short, unintended pause.

“No,” the other skater responds softly. He tilts his head, as though he is considering his next words carefully. “I was wondering…”

“ _Yes_?”

“I was wondering,” Katsuki continues, and it’s an iron gaze that now returns his, “if we could talk again.”

Yuri is disarmed by these words, and he’s sure that it shows on his face. After all, ‘the other night’ had seemed far too out of place—not to mention almost entirely unprecedented given their previous interactions—to prompt a second occurrence

But, having said those words, Katsuki now doesn’t say anything. At least, not immediately. Instead, he begins to stalk the limited space of the alcove like a caged animal, clearly debating something with himself. It’s a stark contrast he presents, now, this brooding, mercurial creature to the meek, reserved image he normally shows the rest of the world.

After about a minute Katsuki finally turns, but not completely—just so that the profile of his features is visible, silhouetted by the dim, ambient lighting. His voice is low and hoarse as he speaks. “I’ve been thinking about it recently—how every time I get on the ice, it’s always a fight against _my_ self-doubt, _my_ insecurity, and nothing else, no one else. I don’t think…that’s normal.”

He then looks at Yuri almost imperiously. It takes a moment for Yuri to process this silent request for his own thoughts. In response to the other man’s revelations, his fingers have been trembling with a strange sort of energy— _excitement_ , he distantly recognizes—and he tightens them into fists.

“So,” he forces himself to begin slowly. His words are meant to be detached, pseudo-clinical, but he can feel that his face does not quite carry the sentiment through. “So now that you’ve acknowledged it, stop competing against yourself all the time and do what most skaters do: _compete_ against your _competitors_.”

Katsuki takes a moment to process these words. Then, his face takes on a slightly challenging cast with a twist to his lips. “I see…so Victor, then? He’s skating next season, after all.”

Yuri sort of wants to tear off one of the candle holders from the walls, but manages to restrain himself. After all, Victor _is_ the one who Katsuki has worshiped this entire time. He manages to return coolly: “Then by definition he would be a competitor. Do the math, Katsuki.”

But the dark haired man’s eyes only narrow and increase in intensity as he leans closer. “I thought you didn’t like Victor.”

“I don’t really care either way,” Yuri bites out, “I just don’t like plastic idiots screwing up _my_ competition. He stops doing that, and I have no problem.”

“I see,” Katsuki responds slowly, head cocked to the side. There’s a strange look in his eyes. “You know he’s still going to be coaching me next season, right?”

… _What?_

“What?” Yuri echoes out loud, tone flat.

Then, he feels like he’s been electrocuted with rage. “You’re telling me you’re going to be _competing against your own coach_?! What the _fuck_ is Nikiforov thinking? What the fuck are _you_ th—”

But Katsuki doesn’t look angry or defensive or repentant in the least. Instead, his head is still cocked to the side, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Yuri aggressively closes the distance between them until he’s a close couple of inches from the other man. “Oh? So who _do_ you want to compete against, then?” he growls in demand, blue eyes flashing.

And now Katsuki’s gaze is _burning_ into his—just like it had after Yuri had finished his performance—as he leans down, his voice uncharacteristically harsh and frustrated.  “You know, no matter what I did, I still couldn’t make up my mind. I couldn’t commit myself to another season of skating, not even when Victor asked it of me…But all it took was watching you skate, and I knew. Like _that_ , I knew.”

And Yuri simply…pauses. Because…Katsuki is looking at him, now— _him—_ with the full force and focus of that seething passion and, somehow, it’s laughably more potent than any half-assed _Eros_ -contrived glance he’s seen this man send the older Russian skater. And _fuck_ if that doesn’t make him want to—

“Why?” There’s a distantly stunned quality to Katsuki’s expression, dark hair shadowing even darker eyes. The thin space of air between them thrums with something ineffable “Why are you—the idea of skating against you again—why did _that_ make me decide?”

“Well, I have my own question,” Yuri responds roughly, finally regaining the power of speech; and, even though it’s not the well thought-out retort he would have wanted and it seems to address a seemingly tangential issue, he says anyway, “ _Do you think I let just any random moron slobber on my shirt_?”

Something in Katsuki’s gaze changes, and he releases a sharp exhalation as though someone has punched him.

And then, without warning, the other man releases a short, astonished laugh, and his forehead is leaning against _Yuri's_.

“What—”

“You hide it remarkably well,” Katsuki tells him after a short moment, “but, you know…you are unexpectedly…kind.”

…It can be said quite confidently that this is the first time any person has ever said that to Yuri in his life.

“Also,” Katsuki tells him, pulling back a little, and his eyes are fierce, “Next year…I think I’ll take that medal back from you.”

Yuri's still gaping, but manages to sober at these words. The Grand Prix finals next year…his mind begins to drift in directions he does not want it to. Something of his thoughts must manage to make its way to his face, because Katsuki eyes narrow in unexpectedly intuitive suspicion. “Why—”

“ _Yuu-ri_!” They both hear a familiar voice call from somewhere out of sight. Yuri’s face becomes stoic, and he takes a step back from the dark-haired man. He composes himself as Victor Nifikorov make his appearance at the front of the alcove. There’s a dazzling, too-bright smile on the Russian man’s face as he catches sight of Katsuki, his pale hair cutting a stark contrast to his avant-garde burgundy suit.

“I was looking all over for you, Yuuri,” Victor pouts, his voice silky, “I _told_ you the other coaches would be no fun compared to you.”

But Katsuki's eyes are still fixed unwaveringly on Yuri despite the interruption—Yuri who, perhaps fortunately, does not have time to dwell on this because he is trying, subtly, to adjust his rumpled suit and crooked tie.

“Ah, Yurio,” Victor says, finally noticing him. “Don’t tell me,”—he adopts a sultry, teasing tone, evaluating the both of them—“Now that you two have managed to beat my records, you’re conspiring together against your mentor?”

Neither of them respond. Yuri, because it’s never been among his particular set of proclivities to indulge the older man’s whims anyway. And Katsuki—well, Yuri doesn’t really know about Katsuki.

Yuri watches as Victor's eyes focus on the Japanese man's posture and widen slightly in realization.

“Ah, don’t be upset, Yuuri. I'm not mad at you,” Victor tells him, tone intimate. He walks closer to the dark haired man and wraps an arm around him. “I wanted to kiss the gold medal too, but we’ll just have to wait. Why don’t we head back to the hotel? I have my own present for you.”

“For once, actually, I think I’m siding with Nikiforov,” Yuri says with forced nonchalance, already backing away from the alcove, “Congratulations. And good night.”

Katsuki's eyes flash to him in an instant, narrowing. “ _Yuri_ ,” he hears, "We weren't--"

“Later, Katsuki,” Yuri tosses back over his shoulder. And even though he tries to stifle it, he knows the last glance he sends the taller man—the other half of his face is shadowed so that Victor cannot read his expression—probably reveals too much.

 

* * *

 

 

Author's Note:

 

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!! Your support has completely blown me over and I am very selfishly lavishing in it. I swear, a little piece of me goes to heaven each time I get a nice, long comment ;)

Please keep up the comments/kudos and more I shall provide <3

 

P.S. Next chapter is when I will hopefully make good headway on diverging from canon plot. So psyched!

 


	4. L’inverno

For the next two months, Yuri’s nights are spent in constant, unforgiving pain. Dark circles become seemingly permanent fixtures under his eyes—a consequence of too many restless nights in a row. The smell of pain relief cream becomes the definitive scent of everything he owns. He eats more than he ever has before in his life.

And Lilia and Yakov do not let him compete once.

They don’t let him compete—but they do make him skate every day. The same Grand Prix routines again and again, _Agape_ and _Allegro Appassionato in B Minor_ , to keep him in shape. And then, after that, he goes to the ballet studio with Lilia, and he does arabesques, pliés, and holds his foot past the top of his head in agonizing, perfect extension for what seems like hours.

“Your body is changing,” Lilia tells him sometime in the middle of it, holding his leg aloft with him. She presses his leg with gentle firmness and meets his gaze with an iron intensity. “But we will teach your body to retain what has been drilled into it. We will give nature a framework for its work.”

After a long moment, she allows him to release from the position.

The understanding that this hellish isolation is a necessary reprieve from the world begins to resonate with Yuri. The two months become to him somewhat of a cold war, one between nature and the years of blood and sweat he has devoted to skating. If he is not vigilant during this time, he understands, he could stand to lose it all. He allows all distractions—including his cellphone and his laptop—to remain in Yakov’s possession. If anyone attempts to contact him, he does not know it.

Instead, he finds a painful solace in his spins and jumps and layback Ina Bauers, his feet cutting jagged and foreign patterns in the ice beneath him—wider circles, longer cuts, steeper angles. He falls an embarrassing number of times and loses his balance more than he cares to admit. But, slowly, he adjusts and it gets better. He is not going to let this— _what he knows he can do—_ be stolen away. Not for as long as he can humanly resist.

After all, who else will guard the gold medal when Katsuki comes knocking for it?

* * *

In two months, Yuri grows almost half a foot.

Specifically—when Yakov measures him to update his body data on file, Yuri sees that the number he puts down is 10 cm greater than it had been last. He makes meaning of the number when he turns to face the wall of mirrors in the studio.

Unsurprisingly, the figure that looks back at him is taller than he is accustomed to. But the greatest change is undeniably in his build. Lean muscles—visible athleticism—replace former wiry strength; a harsher jawline cuts the curtain of his hair. His former rail-thin, androgynous silhouette, he recognizes, now possesses some distinctly masculine quality.

“You have become a man at last, _zezda_ ,” Yakov declares gruffly while finishing up the last of the form.

“Well, _that_ remains to be seen,” Lilia corrects stiffly. But she turns to look at Yuri with something very much like pride on her face. “Nevertheless, he has grown.”

She adds after a moment, lips thinning again: “And now, we must get rid of that mop of hair immediately. It looks ridiculous.”

Yuri finds that he is too exhausted from sleep-deprivation to argue—too tired to even decide if he wants to. He’s also learned through hard experience that when Lilia wants something, she gets her way.

When Lilia does end up dragging him to the salon, he ends up falling asleep in the salon chair. When he opens his eyes again, the shoulder length hair is gone.

“It suits you,” Lilia confirms, fingers brushing the longest portions of hair that shadow his eyes. The hair at the bottom of his head, he feels with his hand, is different from the top—sheared close to his scalp.

“A new image will be forged from this—and a new theme. _Agape_ has had its turn.”

“ _Eros?_ ” Yuri smirks humorlessly. They walk back to the car that had escorted them there.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Lilia says sharply, sliding into her seat. “No, something else.”

* * *

 ‘Something else,’ it happens, is revealed to him a couple of days later.

“Salvation,” Lilia barks abruptly and without context, causing everyone at the table to pause in their eating. Had the prima ballerina decided to become a…preacher?

Snarling at their blank expressions, she reaches forward to grip Yuri’s shoulders between two talon-like hands. “The theme for your new pieces will be salvation. The judges—the world—will want a transformation from you before they award a young upstart again. No one likes to give gold to something they have seen before.”

Yakov is pensive. “What do you envision?”

The prima ballerina’s long-nailed hands move in sharp, abrupt motions as she explains, “A young man seeking salvation after recognizing the errors of his youth. The reformed deviant, repenting his ways.”

Yuri grimaces, but Yakov’s eyes slowly widen in realization. “Yes. I see it. Adolescence coming to grips with adulthood. How fitting,”—his face breaks into a violent grin, baring his teeth at the taller woman—“Ah, Lilia. I think you have done it again.”

The retired prima ballerina smiles back just as viciously. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember they were married—and then, sometimes, it really isn’t.

* * *

 When Yakov eventually returns his possessions to him, Yuri notices that his cellphone is missing. Yakov gruffly apologizes for misplacing it. Yuri shrugs and buys a new phone the next day.

* * *

For reasons he does not understand, Yakov drags him all the way out to Japan for the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship. ‘Evaluating the competition,’ he explains curtly, tapping away at his phone with fingers too big for the keyboard. Yuri sneers and wonders what the other man is thinking to take him to a competition not even sanctioned by the ISU.

It, stupidly, only occurs to him when he gets off the plane to wonder _who_ exactly he will be seeing at a competition in Japan.

When he enters the rink, the sight of the dark, bowed head for the first time in months hits him like a punch to the gut. Yuri freezes and is nearly launched forward when Yakov walks into him from behind.

“ _Yuri,_ ” Yakov growls, before his gaze falls on what Yuri is looking at. “I see you have identified the reason for our trip.”

Yuri’s gaze darts to his coach.

The older man looks back at him calmly. “I do not need to remind you that Katsuki Yuuri needs careful watching. You won last year’s Grand Prix Finals over him due to pure, dumb luck.”

Yuri does not voice disagreement. Instead, he walks forward and takes the first available seat he can find in the front row. He settles down into his seat and pulls out his headphones, but allows his hood to shadow his face from those around him. His gaze settles on something in the distance and does not waver.

Yakov grunts beside him as he sits down. “I hear that Victor is still his coach even though he is competing again. Foolish. There’s a reason that’s unconventional.”

Yuri nods without looking at him. He’s noticed something. At first glance, Yuri had thought that Katsuki looked almost exactly the same—same angular face, pale and tense due to nerves, same dark, fathomless eyes. Now, he feels that there is something different. He can’t quite place it. 

Then the ever-fawning Victor appears from seeming nowhere and drapes himself over the Japanese skater. Tilts his head so close to the other man’s that their mouths are a scarce few inches apart.

Not for the first time, Yuri wonders what Victor really wants from Yuuri, because his treatment of the Japanese man has been decidedly extreme even for him. Yuri knows they have not been in a romantic relationship until now, despite most people’s speculations. He also knows that Yuuri does not view Victor in an explicitly romantic way—worshipful and devoted though he has been.

But he also knows that Victor fucks almost anyone with the nerve to ask—had been witness to it when he and Yuri had both actively trained under Yakov and travelled to competitions together. He also knows that people fit into categories in Victor’s head—friend, brother, lover—and at the slightest inclination or whim on his part or the other person’s, he could swiftly resort them into another category.

If Victor decides one day that he wants Yuuri as his lover (if he has not already) and takes action, what _would_ Yuuri do? Would he…would he _fuck_ him? Fancy himself in love with the plastic man? Start blushing meekly again and become doe-eyed again, gaze up at him through dark lashes as though the fucking moon hung from Victor Nikiforov’s pale ass? Would he—would he start skating for _that_ fucking idiot again, like he was the only thing that mattered?

Yuri grits his teeth so hard he swears he can taste blood, eyes widening shortly with rage.

Reporters’ cameras begin to flash wildly at the nauseatingly endearing image the Japanese and Russian pair present and refocus Yuri’s attention. Calming slightly, he observes that Katsuki’s reaction to Victor’s action, however, is atypical—no sputtering, flustered speech or teary, worshipping gaze. The Japanese skater nods firmly at his Russian coach, twists the matching gold ring absent-mindedly on his finger (on his _right_ hand not his left), and then gazes at the ice almost challengingly.

Yuri’s fingers tighten around the railing. _That_. That’s different. There’s a show of near-haughtiness in those dark eyes. Is this the development of what started at the banquet those months ago? Or for the performance?

“First up: _Katsuki Yuuri_!” the announcer declares through his microphone, “Last season, Katsuki-san blossomed under the guidance of living legend Victor Nikiforov to become an unexpected contender for gold in the Grand Prix finals! He lost the gold by a tenth of a point—but he may very well win it this time! In his first performance of the season, Katsuki-san has decided to skate to the theme of _hubris_ —a very interesting choice for the skater!”

Katsuki steps out onto the ice. Yuri is surprised by his costume—a departure from the typical elaborate glitter and intricate beading. Instead, the costume consists of a simple, loose-fitting silken top in burgundy tucked into pitch black tapered pants. His dark hair is slicked back from his forehead. The total effect is a stark, dramatic figure against the paleness of the ice.

Short, staccato notes of a single, string instrument cut through the cheering of the crowd. The music builds with the addition of more string instruments, and Katsuki plunges into motion, his movements sharp and aggressive.

When Katsuki finally turns so that Yuri can see his face, he is surprised by the domineering expression he glimpses—decidedly different from the brash, machismo of JJ’s performances and even the seductive sort of egotism the Japanese skater had performed the year before. _This_ arrogance is far more complicated: visibly flawed, fragile, and hard-won. And in a flash of understanding, Yuri realizes Katsuki’s theme is not about a struggle with _hubris_ in the traditional sense, of rampant overconfidence or excessive pride, but something else.

As a single, demanding violin cuts through the staccato of the other string instruments, Katsuki slides into a long and complex step sequence with blurring speed and precision. Throughout the sequence, the background pulsating of the other instruments increases in strength, creating an undeniable sense of momentum that seemingly pushes the whole audience to hush in anticipation.

Not a moment too soon, and with devastating effect, all the disparate string instruments including the lone, piercing violin join together just as Katsuki launches into a quad toe loop.

Yuri recognizes the music now—a classical piece his grandfather plays often on his vinyl record player: _Concerto in F Minor for Violin, Op. 8, No. 4, “L’inverno”_ by Vivaldi. 

The cheering is thunderous when Katsuki lands the jump without flaw. Next, a spread eagle into a triple axel jump, an elegant layback Ina Bauer, and then a flying sit spin variation.

Yuri watches with wide eyes as Katsuki launches into a second quad _in his_ _short program_ , overturning slightly on the quad salchow, but sliding smoothly nevertheless into a sharp, frenzied step sequence before slowing with the music to a bow.

The dark-haired man is panting when he finishes, a tremulous but striking smirk on his face—and Yuri can feel his own blood pulsing loudly underneath his skin. It’s not a perfect performance. But the fact that Katsuki is this good at this stage of the season is…Yuri’s teeth are unconsciously bared in a savage demonstration of a smile.

“Huh,” Yakov exhales loudly, his eyebrows raised. After a moment, he tugs Yuri up. “Come. I want to talk to Victor.”

Yuri follows without listening. His mind is caught on long, powerful black legs slicing smoothly through ice and air. Long gone was the façade of the seducer—cheekily arrogant but fundamentally subservient to his viewer, to _Victor_. This performance was carefully controlled and punishing—and, notably, self-possessed. Which, Yuri had little difficulty realizing, somehow made it all the more ar _—_

Yakov stops walking and Yuri blinks back to attention. With surprise, he finds himself and Yakov standing in front of a door with the name ‘KATSUKI’ taped to it.

_What?_

Before Yuri can do much more than gape, Yakov knocks on the door and it opens a second later.

“Yakov!” Victor reaches forward and gathers his mentor in a hug.

Then Victor’s eyes fall on Yuri, and they abruptly widen. He stays wide-eyed like that long enough to make Yuri look down at himself just in case—black hoodie and joggers, red-and-black leopard print lace-up sneakers. Perfectly normal. Well, then—it certainly _is_ an odd time for Nikiforov to suddenly awaken to the greatness of his clothing style. 

“My, my, haven’t you grown.” Victor murmurs, in that characteristic sickeningly-seductive tone all his conversations with Katsuki seem to consist of.

So that's what it had been. Yuri shifts his weight and doesn’t take the tone seriously.

Yakov straightens with ill-hidden pride. “Hundred seventy-three centimeters. Peak shape for skating.”

“Yes,” Victor agrees, leading them inside. It’s a tidy little private room, furnished with a TV that relays what’s happening on the rink, a bowl of fruit and other snacks, and a crate of water bottles. He adds charmingly, “You’re Yuuri’s height now! And I must say, that and the new hair makes you seem very—ah, what’s the word?— _muzhskoy_.”

Yuri sneers at Victor’s words, but Yakov clears his throat and interrupts, likely sensing that Yuri is about to get snippy. “Speaking of which, where is Katsuki?” the old coach asks, “I wish to offer him congratulations. That was a fearsome performance he gave today.”

Victor hums in response. “Thank you, on his behalf. Of course, he has very much a long way to go—he hasn’t even scratched the surface of what he can do with this piece. But he will be glad to know that you thought so. He’s changing into his clothes in the back room right now.”

And, as if summoned, the door behind the TV suddenly opens. Katsuki steps forward, lean form clothed in sweater and dark athletic sweatpants, gaze directed downward as he rubs his eyes.

“Victor,” Katsuki huffs, stretching his arms upward. The gold of the band on his right-hand flashes in the light. “Can we leave now t—”

Dark eyes lock onto Yuri’s, and he stops abruptly.

* * *

Meeting Katsuki’s gaze, level with him, shouldn’t be such a big deal as it is turning out to be—and yet, inexplicably, _it is_. It is…it’s simultaneously too intense and too comfortable in all the wrong ways and…well, how the hell is _that_ possible? He doesn’t even make any sense anymore.

But, strangely, he can’t seem to give a fuck. Somehow, he feels like even if the world were to end right now, he would stay planted right fucking there and just take his damn time. Which is so fucking _stupid_ and why did he even think that, by all rights he should—

But…Victor was right, Yuri realizes somewhat drunkenly. They are _exactly_ the same height. Not one centimeter taller or shorter.

And suddenly, he is viciously glad for it. Because Yuri had hated looking up at Katsuki from below him, and he probably would have loathed looking _down_ at him too. He didn’t want to see tufts of dark hair and lashes and nothing else, which was no doubt what Nikiforov saw 90% of the time. 

“Yuri.” The name escapes Katsuki in a breath, as though he has had no control over its release.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Yakov begins. Abruptly, Yuri remembers that he and Nikiforov are there. “I was just speaking to Victor about your performance. What a wonderful showcase of your talent. I see Yuri will have much to compete with this season.”

Yuuri bows deeply. “Thank you so much, Yakov-san. I appreciate your kind words.” Yuuri isn’t looking at him right now.

In fact, he doesn’t look at him again for the next five minutes in which he, Yakov, and Victor make polite conversation. And Yuri notices that Yuuri’s jaw is tight as he angles himself toward his coach. As though he has decided purposefully now to ignore Yuri’s presence.

The thought sets Yuri’s teeth on edge, eyes narrowing. Yuuri ignoring _him_? Somehow, this is not how Yuri had imagined their next encounter playing out. Not…that he had imagined it, of course.

“I am glad we had the chance to catch up,” Victor concludes diplomatically after a lull in the conversation. “But, Yuuri and I should head back now so that he can get some sleep before the free skates tomorrow.”

“Actually,” Yakov states gruffly, a conflicted look on his face. Finally, he sighs heavily and turns to Victor with a grave expression, “Victor, I would like to talk to you outside for a couple of minutes—alone. I won’t take very long.”

Victor tilts his head curiously, much like a strange species of bird observing the actions of another mammal it cannot begin to understand.  “Of course.”

He holds the door open for the older coach and then follows him out. The door shuts behind them with finality, leaving Yuri and Yuuri alone.

“You’re ignoring me,” Yuri rasps out furiously. He grinds his teeth when there’s not an immediate answer, fighting against the impulse to crowd the other man and compel him to talk.

Yuuri, thankfully, apparently comes to decide it too childish to ignore his presence now that it is just the two of them in the room. His expression is shuttered off when he answers. “I was under the impression that that was what you wanted.”

That brings Yuri to a grinding halt. “ _What_?”

And then he remembers how he had walked out of the banquet all those months ago, even though Yuuri had clearly wanted to talk to him more. Yes, Yuri had been sort of rude when he had walked out like that—but this response is a little over-blown, isn’t it?

Yuuri’s gaze meets his again, and it’s nothing like ten minutes or so ago, when his presence had taken the other by surprise. Now, the dark eyes burn with hostility.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Yuri tells him bluntly.

Yuuri’s face pales, his lips twitching like he is holding something ferocious back. Yuri watches this both in angry confusion and with distant fascination.

And then the Japanese man is snarling, much like a vicious, wounded animal. “I have no idea why you had to—” his lips tense furiously as he searches for the words, “—why you decided to --All you had to do was _tell_ me. I would have backed off. And now…well, now _you_ can just—” Yuuri averts his gaze, a foreign, dismissive look on his face—“…f- _fuck_ _off_.”

_Did Katsuki Yuuri just swear at him?_

Within a second, Yuri gives into impulse. He storms forward, cornering Yuuri tightly against the edge of two walls with two hands that land just above his shoulders on each wall. “Listen to me,” Yuri growls, “I don’t know _what the_ _fuck_ you’re talking about. So get over yourself and whatever this is, and— _fuck”_ —Yuri snaps for a moment, gives into the rage he has somewhat carefully controlled until now, nails clawing into cheap wallpaper—“ _don’t_ ignore me like that.”

They stare at each other like that for a long, suffocating moment, both silently furious.

“And if I do?” Yuuri poses, his voice deathly quiet. His eyes watch him like a hawk. “What will you do?”

Something terrible roars in Yuri’s chest and, he swears, for a second, he loses all sense of where and when he is. What will he do? _Kiss him. Shove him back into the wall and follow him there a second later. Feel their breaths stutter against each other’s mouths. Rake his nails down his back. Keep him there until he never wants to look away from—_

For whatever Yuuri sees in his face, he does not blink once. And for one, dangerous moment, Yuri thinks that if he—

The sound of the door knob turning echoes loudly in the room. Cursing, Yuri pulls away until he is a respectable couple of feet away from the man.

Yakov enters first, a grim expression on his face; Victor follows with a polite smile plastered across his. It’s hard to tell what happened, as both expressions are customary of their owners. Yuri does not care at this moment to try.

Instead, he bites hard down on the side of his cheek and darts a glance Yuuri’s way. Dark eyes meet his, complicated and turbulent, in a pale, tense face.

“Yuri, we will leave now.” Yakov declares in a tone that brooks no argument, “Katsuki needs his rest for the free skate, and our flight leaves in two hours.”

And Yuri has little choice, because his coach is already tugging him firmly away. The door creaks to a slow close behind them when they leave.

But Yuri swears: until the last second the door is open behind them, he can feel the Yuuri’s gaze burning fiercely into his back.

 

* * *

 

Notes:

  1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAnGMSg17Ek - this is the piece I imagined for Yuuri's short program, in case you're interested
  2. _Muzhskoy_ means masculine in Russian
  3. It's come to my attention (after writing the chapter) that Yuuri would not actually compete in the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship again given his standing from the previous Grand Prix Finals...lol so for the purposes of my fic we are going to pretend that he would anyway, I guess? Apologies to all the skating fans out there who are much more knowledgeable of this topic than I am



 

* * *

 

 

I KNOW IT TOOK ME FOREVER TO UPDATE I'M SO SORRY. I got swamped in school, as school typically has the annoying habit of doing, but I'm back!!! Thank you so much for all your support and enthusiasm until now! I hope the excitement of this fandom hasn't waned too much yet (and I haven't left you guys hanging for too long lol), so that a lot of you who started this fic and liked it are still here reading until now!

Please, please, please read and leave comments (as well as kudos :D). You have no idea how incredible and motivating those are. I _love_ hearing your thoughts :)

Also, a lot of comments so far have been addressing the *cough* sexual dynamic between Yuri and Yuuri. I'm considering starting a somewhat informal poll with regard to it in the comment section, although I make no promises that I will necessarily abide by the majority opinion ;)

Lol hope this chapter didn't suck too much. Let me know <3

Until next time!!! (And nice, long comments make that time sooner *hint* *hint*)

P.S. I know, I'm shameless


	5. Baijiu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steamy

“Who’s that?” Yuri asks, tightening the laces on his skates at the side of the rink.

Mila sidles up to him, auburn hair fanning around her as she follows his gaze.

“You haven’t been paying attention to the news lately, have you?” she responds after a moment, an annoying smirk on her face.

Yuri’s gaze narrows at the non-answer.

She heaves an artificial sigh, leaning against the railing. The smirk remains. “Oh, don’t frown so much—you’ll get lines on that adorable face. That’s our new rink-mate, Natasha Dominika.”

Yuri tilts his head to the side. “The name sounds familiar.”

“It should.” Mila’s gaze is more serious now, surveying the newest member of the rink with what is undeniably a challenging gaze. “She’s the reigning Junior World Champion. Until now, she trained in Moscow with Maxim Pavel. For her senior debut, though, she’s bagged Yakov.”

“The best,” Yuri murmurs, eyeing the ice.                                               

“The best,” Mila agrees, inclining her head. “I heard Yakov approached her first.” Like you, she leaves unsaid.

He watches with Mila as Yakov escorts Natasha Dominika in their direction through spectator seats and across aisles. Dominika is tall—easily as tall as Mila—with the kind of haughty, sharp features that reinforce a quality of self-possession. 

“ _Yoptel-mopsel_ , where the hell does she get a rack like that at seventeen?” Mila mutters beside him, crossing her arm.

Yuri glances at his rink-mate out of the corner of his eye with a sneer. “Don’t worry, hag. I’m sure it’s not too late for you. Maybe.”

Mila grins savagely at him. “You know, Yuri, you might be a little bigger now, but I’m sure if I try hard, I can still _lift you over my head and_ —”

“Yuri, Mila,” they hear Yakov grunt, cutting off whatever threat the auburn-haired woman had intended. “Let me introduce you to your new rink-mate, Natasha.”

Natasha looks at Mila coolly, brushing long locks of hair away from her shoulder. She then reaches out the same hand to greet her. “I look forward to training with you.”

Mila smiles. “It’s so nice to see you again! I think we’ve competed together before in the past.”

“Really?” Natasha says, unconcerned. “I can’t remember you.”

Mila sputters in rage as Natasha swiftly removes her hand and extends it to Yuri. He must stare at the proffered hand disinterestedly for a moment too long because Yakov growls—and he knows he’ll be subject to a long lecture later if he doesn’t take it immediately. Yuri holds the hand briefly with a roll of his eyes.

Before Mila can explode, Yakov gracefully steps in. “Natasha, why don’t you get settled in and grab lunch after in the cafeteria?”

Natasha leaves in the direction Yakov points her to. When she has exited the rink, he, Yakov, and Mila stand for a moment in silence.

“Unbearable, rude, and arrogant,” Mila concludes in a low tone, “I think you’ve got competition, Yuri.”

Yuri ignores Yakov’s bellows of laughter and begins practicing his free skate.

* * *

At lunch, his appraisal of his pork katsudon—a luxury that is allowed to him only once every two weeks by Lilia—is interrupted by the flash of a camera.

Sara, one of Mila’s figure-skating-fanatic friends, beams back at him unapologetically from behind her cellphone. Yuri wonders when Yakov will actually update security at the rink to keep ‘civilians’ out of the cafeteria like they are supposed to be.

“If I see that phone again,” Yuri tells her calmly, dissecting his katsudon, “no one will ever see _you_ again.”

Sara pouts. “Aw, don’t be like that. This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot! Look! It already has hundreds of likes and I posted it seconds ago.”

She shoves her screen at him. Yuri examines it with a mouth full of food. In the image, he’s looking to the right where his katsudon sits on the table, outside of the frame. Behind him and to the right, Natasha Dominika’s head is turned to the left. Even though the other skater is sitting at the table behind him, the picture is taken an angle to make it look like her face is inches from his face. With what must have been lightning quick fingers, Sara had written _Yuri Plisetsky + Natasha Dominika??? <3_ and placed a geographic tag to verify its authenticity.

True to her words, the picture has accumulated a ridiculous amount of attention in the past few seconds.

“Nice picture,” he hears a voice comment near his ear. Natasha’s head peers at the image over his shoulder.

Sara appears to spontaneously combust at the attention of the skater, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink. “N-Natasha! It’s an absolute _honor_ to meet you in person! Can I say that your last season was nothing short of mind-blow—”

“Thanks,” she interrupts dismissively. Her gaze snaps to Yuri.

Without a word of warning, she swings one long jogger-encased leg over him and settles onto his lap. It happens so quickly that he actually blinks for a second and wonders where his katsudon has disappeared.

When he does orient himself, Yuri raises an eyebrow.

She smiles prettily at him, shifting deftly so that her front is pressed more firmly against his. “I’m more comfortable here.” Dark eyes (not the darkest he’s seen, though, an unrequested part of him notes) look down at him. “We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier. You look different from how I remember you.”

Yuri briefly wonders how Yakov will react if he ‘accidentally’ shoves his newest prized skater on her first day in order to get to his food. Unfortunately, he knows his coach too well to think he could get away with it without dire punishment.

“Unless you actually want me to explain the intricacies of human growth,” he drawls instead, “would you mind—”

“Hm,” she cuts in, rolling her hips meaningfully, “I think I’ve got _that_ part down.”

Yuri barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Because, honestly, with _katsudon_ waiting for him a foot away, her gyrating doesn’t really even begin to register.

“Natasha!” someone thankfully calls from the doorway, “Yakov wants to meet with you on the rink.”

The redheaded skater tosses her hair back, sends him one last heated smirk, and vanishes from his lap. Almost immediately, Yuri’s face is in his food, inhaling the delicious meal before him. When he resurfaces, he sees a still-gaping Sara and a notification on his phone. He absentmindedly swipes at the notification. There, on his feed, is an image of himself with Natasha Dominika on his lap. Posted by @SaraIceIceBaby. Six thousand likes.

Apparently, still-gaping Sara had had the presence of mind to capitalize on his person, once again, in her unrelenting crusade to become the plague of ice skaters’ lives everywhere.

With a pleasant smile, Yuri grabs the cellphone in her hand and chucks it across the room.

* * *

The next day, Yuri spots Yakov and Lilia and an entourage of other important bureaucratic figures enter the rink with a hooded figure.

“Don’t tell me Dominika has a sister,” he mutters to Mila, stretching next to her on the ice. His eyes dart to the skater in question to find her performing a stationary layback Ina Bauer at the opposite end of the rink as warm-up.

Mila barks a horrified laugh as she pulls her leg up. “Could you imagine that?”

Yuri looks hard at her for a second. “You know who it is.”

“Yes….and you don’t. Wow, Yakov really doesn’t tell you _anything_ , does he?”

Yuri grits his teeth because, yes, he really doesn’t. Not since he had run off to Japan to make Victor keep his promise—after Yakov had let slip that Victor was in Japan.

“Come on, old lady,” he sneers, “what’s the deal?”

Mila’s eye twitches fearsomely. “Calling me that isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

Yuri scoffs.  “Please, we both kn—”

He’s abruptly silent. Because the ‘hooded figure’ is closer now, and he knows exactly who it is.

“How,” he demands, ignoring the heady sensation pulsing through him at the sheer sight of the other man. 

Something in his expression must convince her to explain, if reluctantly. “Victor’s in Italy for the week for his own skating. Yakov’s taking over his protégé’s training as a favor. I’m guessing the bureaucrats are throwing a hissy fit because he’s here.”

As though prompted, the bureaucrats in the group storm out of the rink, leaving behind Yakov, Lilia, and Katsuki Yuuri.

“Mila, Yuri, Natasha, Georgi,” Yakov bellows, all the way from the top level of the spectator stands, “Get your asses to this side of the rink.”

By the time Mila drags him there, Yakov and Lilia stand with Yuuri scarcely two feet away from the edge of the rink. He can feel the heat of Yuuri’s gaze on his skin, though his face is still shadowed by the hood. Vaguely hostile and angry though he knows it is, Yuri burns with selfish satisfaction.

“Yuuri will be joining us in training for the week,” Yakov announces, “If you have any questions, I’m not answering them. All I’m saying is, I assured Victor I’d hand him back in one piece. Put his number on your phones in case he gets lost.”

As they pull out their phones and Yakov recites the number, Lilia huffs behind Yakov and bats the hood off of Yuuri’s head. “For god’s sake, boy, you’re indoors.”

Yuri watches as Yuuri— _Katsuki Yuuri_ —openly scowls at her, unfathomably dark eyes and pale lips revealed. The expression on his face as he surveys the rink is turbulent, his desire to be anywhere else obvious. When it seems he can no longer avoid it, his gaze darts to Yuri—resentful. At the sight of him, however, his face becomes abruptly blank.  “You have a different cellphone.”

Yuri, and everyone around him, pause at the strange observation—and the sharp, accusing tone it is delivered in.

“Ah, yes,” his coach says after a moment, a bit abashed and examining Yuri quizzically. “I, ah, lost Yuri’s phone a few months ago, and he was forced to get a new one.”

“Get…a new…one,” Yuuri repeats tonelessly.

“Yes,” Yuri affirms after a moment, examining the unfairly enigmatic man and his inexplicable behavior.

Yuuri’s eyes widen abruptly beneath their glasses, dark eyes filling with too much and too quickly for Yuri to decipher. Then, unexpectedly, a hoarse laugh spills from the Japanese man’s mouth. Then more laughter, soundless, until he’s doubled over with his hands over his stomach.

Yuri feels his eyebrows climbing towards his eyebrows. “What—”

At the sound of his voice, Yuuri immediately stops laughing. Before he is aware of what’s happening, the dark-haired man has a rough hand on his windbreaker and is yanking him forward into a vicious gaze.

And then, contradictorily, a helpless smile starts to break out across his face. Yuri watches its formation with dazed, greedy eyes. Has he—Why is everyone else here right now? This is fo—

A hand curls into the back of his collar and pulls him back.

“Nice to meet you, Yuuri Katsuki,” Natasha says, a smug smile on her face. “I know you won silver last year in the Grand Prix Finals, but please don’t handle our gold medalist so roughly.”

Yuuri’s gaze as he looks at the redheaded Russian skater now is much more familiar—wide, surprised, guileless. But then his eyes fall to his shoulder—where Natasha’s hand is.

“I’ll try not to break him,” the dark eyed man responds, tilting his head to the side, a curl to his lips. “No promises.”

Yuri’s mouth slackens.

He doesn’t get to see Yuuri for the rest of the day. Not until night has fallen and they all sit at a local Chinese restaurant Mila has dragged them to in celebration of the anniversary of Yakov and Lilia’s conscious uncoupling. A strange thing to celebrate, probably, but Yuri, Mila, and Georgi have been around the ex-couple long enough to know that their separation is probably the best thing either have done in their lives—even with everything else they have accomplished. Judging by the beaming smiles and fond laughter between the two individuals in question, Yuri knows that Yakov and Lilia think so too.

“And so I told him,” he hears Sara chatter away, slamming her half-empty baijiu onto the table emphatically. “I don’t care if you make me bet a million dollars that I do not own—I swear Yuuri Katsuki is making it into the Grand Prix finals.”

Yuuri gives her a small, earnest smile, sipping his own drink. “That is very kind of you to say,” he says softly.

“Oy, Georgi,” Mila warns from beside him, “maybe slow down a little. The food hasn’t even arrived yet.”

When Georgi’s finished swallowing the full mug of hard alcohol he’s just tossed back, he informs them miserably, “Anya just posted a picture of her and that…that man.”

“And?” she asks bluntly. “That’s hardly new.”

Georgi’s expression crumples. “T-there’s an engagement ring on her finger.”

“Oh,” Mila mouths. She reaches out a hand to grasp the older skater’s in commiseration. “…do you want me to key her car? That’s what I did to my last jerk.”

“ _Well,_ speaking of figure skating posts that got ridiculous amounts of attention this week,” Sara says with gusto—clearly believing herself to be saving this conversation—“Check out the post _I_ made!”

It takes him a few seconds to realize that Sara, Mila’s-most-annoying-friend-by-far, has just dropped an atomic bomb on the table. She’s hastily shoved her cellphone to the very center of the group. The image she’s displayed is undoubtedly the worst one she could have.

 “What is…that?” Georgi perks up, gaze darting between the image and Yuri avidly. Dark eyes leave his to look down. Even Yakov and Lilia stop their mildly venomous banter, eyeing the cellphone with raised eyebrows.

Mila’s talon-like nails dig into his arm. “Yuri,” she begins with deadly sweetness, “can you explain to me why…”

Natasha is sitting on his lap, her face inches above his, the lower part of their faces obscured by her hair?

“Look,” Yuri begins coolly, leaning back into his seat, “this is—”

He breaks off as dark eyes slide almost lazily to him. They do not move.

“Yuri and I were just talking,” Natasha inserts smoothly. She stretches her arm so that it’s resting along the back of his chair. “The seats in the cafeteria don’t happen to be very…comfortable. I found somewhere better to sit.”

The Japanese man calmly picks up his mug of baijiu. 

Mila’s sighs heavily, long-suffering. “I don’t know what you did at your old rink, but you can’t date rink mates here.” 

“Why not?” Natasha asks indifferently, “When two people are compatible such as we are, wouldn’t it be a shame _not_ to?”

The mug returns to the table, empty.

Mila begins to gesticulate wildly enough that she accidentally knocks her chilled drink into his lap. He briefly considers murder as the cold alcohol soaks into his pants.

“Oh shit, Yuri,” the auburn-haired skater curses, “Ah…napkins…napkins…why the fuck aren’t there any napkins…Go to the bathroom and rinse it out!”

Yuri pushes away from the table after he’s sent her a thunderous scowl and stalks his way to the back of the restaurant where neon lights proudly proclaim the entrance to the men’s restroom. Heading straight to the sink, he turns the water in the hot direction.

He runs his hands under the warming water to gauge the temperature. Deciding that it’s enough after a few seconds, he grabs a chunk of napkins and starts to attack his pants. The door opens and closes behind him, but he’s too busy scrubbing viciously to acknowledge the newest inhabitant of the restroom.

He does begin to pay attention, though, when the figure behind him makes no further sounds to indicate movement, apparently content to stand exactly where he is. Yuri’s head snaps back, ready to tell the new occupant to get the fuck out if he can’t find his own dick to urinate. Except, it’s Katsuki Yuuri looking back at him, leaning against the door.

He straightens immediately, scrubbing forgotten. Even though he had just seen the man down an entire mug of baijiu, Yuuri’s gaze is sharp as ever. Yuri’s lips twist, frustration making his shoulders stiff. “Words, Katsuki, you used to be fucking prolific with them.  What _imagined_ slight have I committed now?”

"Katsuki?” the man echoes, an odd, rough quality to his voice. “You called me Yuuri before.”

He  _is_ drunk, Yuri confirms abruptly. And—angry. Now that he’s closer, he can see the paleness of the Japanese man’s face, a jarring contrast to his jet-black hair. Despite himself, Yuri takes a step back. His hips hit the marble ledge of the sinks.

“That skater,” Yuuri says in the same, enigmatic tone, eyes tracing him.

Yuri’s eyes must be laughably wide. Is this what Yuuri is like when he’s drunk? The last time the man had drunk strip-danced. “What—”

“You _let_ her,” he’s cut off, the nonsensical words whispered into his face with the spice-filled scent of baijiu— _when_ had he gotten that close?

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I generally believe it’s philosophically impossible, but,” he rambles—yes, _rambles_ —“I think you’ve had too much al—”

A hand snaps out with lightning quickness and grasps his chin. It’s almost a chokehold—firm, not painful. But an effective order of silence. A warm, heated palm brushes his Adam’s apple.

“I don’t care what you think,” Katsuki Yuuri says simply. And then he lunges forward.

Lips collide against his, rough, greedy _lips_ , hot, brutal _tongue_ , and Yuri’s mind is white hot, it’s going turn him into ashes, he fucking swears, it’s—

Yuuri fists his hand in his hair and yanks his head back. Dark, vicious eyes glare viciously at him—dark, dark eyes, pale trembling lips. _Furious_.

And without further thought, he drives Yuuri hard into the door opposite them, their hips locked tightly.

****

_Panting._

A shift, a tilted head, a hiss of air.

 _Gasping_. Relentless. _Writhing_. Without pause.

Yuri shudders, thrusting against him again, and again, and again. It’s rough, maybe even artless, but it feels so fucking glorious he's nearly mindless with it. Ferocious eyes flashing at him are the only warning he has before he’s slammed into the sinks. But Yuri only laughs darkly at the reversal, peering hungrily at the other man through his fringe.

 _Fuck,_ Yuuri’s head is cocked to the side, just so, that fucking _smirk_ on his lips—

He's the most potent embodiment of _eros_ Yuri has ever seen.

And then he rakes his hands down Yuri’s back, _not_ kissing him, just breathing against him, panting against his mouth—because…because they’re the same exact fucking _height_ —as he begins to swivel his hips torturously, devastatingly against his.

And Yuri goes _mad_.

“Yuuri,” he threatens, trying to rut against him, but held back by hands stronger than they should be, “fuck, you better— _fuck_ —”

The dark-haired man’s head falls back, exposing a long line of neck, as his hips continue to twist slowly. Insatiable, cocky eyes look back at him over his nose. Yuri is half enraged and half insane. Because how—how the _fuck_ does Yuuri know how to do this? If he finds out that anyone, if _Victor fucking Nikiforov_ , taught him this, he’s going to fucking _kill him_ —

His disparate thoughts converge immediately to a single, emphatic point the moment Yuuri releases a particularly, filthy moan right in front of his lips. Still not touching. _Panting_ —hungrily, tauntingly against him.

“Please,” the rude, temperamental Yuri Plisetsky is reduced to. “Please, let me—”

Some higher functioning part of Yuri has the capacity to be stunned in this moment. 

He kisses him again. And it’s better than before. The spice of baijiu is thick on their tongues—he can _taste_ it now—their fingers burn, greedy against each other, his heartbeat thuds in his ears, adrenaline sizzles through his veins, and _fuck_ , does Yuri feel this, does he feel exactly like this too, he wants to feel what he feels—

“I—I need,” Yuri gasps out, _begging_ , scrambling against him, “ _Fuck_ , please, I need—”

Except two things happen then.

First, the door to the bathroom swings open and then swings shut just as quickly at the sight of them. And second, Yuuri’s reaction to this is only to knot his fingers further in Yuri’s hair and kiss him harder.

He’s drunk, Yuri suddenly remembers. The realization washes over him much like Mila’s spilled drink.

Immediately, he pushes Yuuri away.

“Yuri—”

“Stop,” Yuri says with difficulty, “We can’t.”

“What—” Dark, seductive eyes, just slightly hazed.

How, Yuri thinks, almost laughing out loud, how the _fuck_ does a man who is drunk seem so not-drunk in other ways: speaking without slurring, thrusting against him like he's never done before—Actually.

 _When he's_ never _done anything of the sort before.  
_

"Katsuki," Yuri asks roughly. "What city are you in right now?"

"Hmm," the man mumbles back. He breaks out into a slow smile. "Hasetsu."

Fuck.

Because--why _would_ a man who is by all means entirely infatuated with his coach suddenly come on to him? 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 _Does Yuuri even--who does he_  think  _he was kiss--_

No. No, he isn't going to think about that.

But, in many ways, it's already too late. Now that the thought grips him, it possesses him and renders him a veritable madman, obsessed over it, fearful of it, wrecked by it.

And in the face of it, he grows so mindlessly, explosively livid, he almost grabs the waste bin and hurls it into the mirror, just to feel it shatter like he wants. He knows from personal experience, this can easily-- _too fucking easily--_ be explained all by the alcohol. Worse: it's the more believable explanation. 

Katsuki Yuuri is fucking shit-faced and Yuri's most probably the hollow solace he's just happened to see through the twisted lens of inebriation, as his beloved Victor Nikiforov isn't around.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So, that happened--as we know from canon, drunk Yuuri is basically a man unleashed. And, yeah, it's the first time I've written anything near smut so...lol hope it didn't suck.

And, don't worry, talking (and more) will happen next chapter

...which will arrive even more quickly if there are comments :D :D :D

 


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